by Julia Hughes
A Raucous Time
By Julia Hughes
For Bubba: With the hope he never forgets how to fly.
This is an original work by the author, Julia Hughes, who retains all copyrights. ã J Hughes 2004.
Edited and formatted by Greenstreet Editing Services.
Chapter One
In October 1216 a humanitarian disaster unfolded: An army retreating across the mud flats of the River Wash were engulfed by the incoming tide. In less time than it takes to watch a play, or prepare a meal, over a thousand souls perished under clear skies on that late autumn afternoon. Amongst those safely ashore listening to the screams of the drowning and high pitched neighs of frenzied horses and mules, was John, King of England, last surviving son of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, ruler of Normandy, France and England. The cold unforgiving waters claimed not only the lives of John’s men, but also forty wagons, transporting all his worldly goods. Six of those wagons contained treasure of unimaginable worth: the crown and royal regalia, religious artefacts, gold, silver and other priceless articles and artefacts. Within seven days King John himself was dead. Some blamed a bad dish of eels, others speculated poison. Some kept quiet, and wondered if a man could die of a broken heart. Not too many grieved for him, as the country pulled back from the brink of civil war and life slowly returned to normal.
Almost eight hundred years have passed since that fateful day. King John’s treasure remains lost to human sight. Its value is beyond calculation.
Chapter Two
From the street, the mid terraced house appeared ordinary enough. A little shabby and run down, hinting perhaps that the occupants weren't exactly flush with money, or maybe too infirm or elderly to mow the lawn and fix the lopsided gate. Ducking through the front door, Crombie swore and caught his breath, not quickly enough to escape the frowsty malodour permeating the lounge.
Books of every shape and size formed a haphazard narrow corridor to an executive style desk, which looked capable of giving whoever had the task of clearing the house a hernia. The onyx surface was clear though far from clean, even in dim light from the doorway mug stain rings and small piles of cigarette ash were visible. As Crombie deliberated where to place his size twelve’s, a tower of books swayed, toppling against a neighbouring stack before a couple of books slid from the top of the heap to land on the greasy carpet with a muffled thwack.
‘Bollocks! Big hairy bollocks!’ The curse from the kitchen area belonged to someone happier captaining the Metropolitan Police hockey team than rooting through this shambles of a life.
‘Big hairy bollocks belong in a field, attached to a bull WPC Hewes.’ Crombie admonished, despite a waft of gratefulness that he could retreat back to the station now. ‘Show a little more respect for the dead.’ He added, noting Hewes’s face turning pink. Either she was trying to breathe shallow, or more likely biting her tongue against a sharp retort. Crombie couldn’t care less, although usually he curbed his irrational dislike of the young policewoman.
‘Finish up here, speak to the neighbours and make sure your report’s on my desk by lunch time.’ He’d digest her reports in the sanctuary of ‘The Eagle’; a pint of John Smith’s and a pie always helped the thinking process.
*
The only concession to twenty first century life at ‘The Eagle’ was a plasma screen telly and the demolition of the saloon bar to create an open plan roomy area sprawled around an ‘L’ shaped counter behind which bar staff pulled pints and dispensed spirits. Otherwise the glossy tiles on the wall complemented by polished tables and wooden chairs padded with leather seats and backs seemed authentic for a traditional London pub. Regulars at ‘The Eagle’ knew better than to trouble Crombie for his fancy in the 2.30 at Ascot while he perused paperwork. They also knew he worked at the local ‘nick’ and not to be too free with offers of dodgy gear, in this manner the pub remained neutral ground. The few coppers who didn't abide by this unofficial rule were soon persuaded to patronise the wine bar further along Ladbroke Grove. Running his fingers inside his tightening waist band decided Crombie against a second meat and potato pie. Instead pushing his empty plate away, pulling his pint towards him, Crombie settled back to re-read the handful of reports on crimes committed in the early hours of this morning on his ‘manor’.
Most were petty incidents, usually resolved by a neighbour or ‘friend’ grassing up the perp. A couple of trouble makers – so called ‘loveable rogues’ would be good for the moped and car thefts. He’d send a policewoman, not Hewes – she didn’t have the necessary empathy – round to the domestics. After jotting a few lines in his notebook, he shuffled those reports to the bottom of the pile.
That left old man Stern. Crombie swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of ale, wishing not for the first time that life imprisonment meant life. The poor old sod survived the holocaust only to die from terror when his home was burglarised. It seemed he’d put up quite a struggle, defending his precious books. Crombie drained his glass just as the young Australian barmaid claimed his empty plate, shaking his head at her mimed invitation for a refill. Time to show his face again at the station. Shuffling the paperwork back into their files, hiding a smile at the obvious relief of dodgy Dave seated across the other end of the pub, he frowned, fumbling behind for his seat again. Across the room, Dave the Dealer scowled but this time Crombie didn’t notice.
‘How did I miss this?’ he murmured, pulling a single sheet aside to scrutinise, vaguely annoyed his daily ration of ale was finished. Getting old Crombie. He mocked himself. But it wasn’t too late. Pulling out his mobile, he caught Rodgers who’d been a sergeant for far too long but was likely to remain so for the rest of his career just before the skiving plodder disappeared on his so-called ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ beat.
Dave the Dealer’s day was ruined when Crombie ordered a pot of coffee and the telly to be muted. The landlord grimaced, but didn’t complain. Crombie’s presence deterred the hard nuts dealing in dodgier wares than Dave could ever aspire to.
*******
Typically for a weekday afternoon, an air of somnolence hung over the station’s narrow waiting room. Crombie identified the kid immediately. Even if the room had been packed, other ‘customers’ would still be giving him a wide berth. The teenager's tracksuit was thick with grime and ripped along the seam of one trouser leg, uncomfortable though the plastic moulded chairs were, he’d managed to drop off to sleep. His head tipped back to rest on the window sill behind, stretching his neck and exposing red stripes that could have been the result of someone trying to strangle him.
Crombie tapped him on the knee as he passed.
‘Who you waiting for son?’ Though he knew damn well.
Bolting upright, the kid surprised him by almost coming to attention and answering politely.
‘Sergeant Rogers asked me to come in Sir.’ He swept heavy dark hair back from his face, as though gathering his thoughts.
‘My gran and cousin were attacked last night in their … I mean our house.’ Realising he’d slipped up he gabbled on:
‘He wanted me to sign for something, but I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. Sir.’ He tried a hesitant smile, not a bad looking kid. His skin was a bit sallow, and the dark brown eyes looked weary, probably the result of too much time in front of a computer screen. Either that, or too many late nights. Crombie nodded as though this was news to him. Stepping over to an internal door, Crombie punched in a security code and let himself into the main offices behind the waiting and interview rooms bellowing for Rodgers to attend to his ‘customer’.
Minutes later he swept out again, ignoring the kid’s glare at making him the unwanted centre o
f attention.
‘Be with you in a minute son. Not long now.’ Catching the eye of another ‘customer’ waiting to sign in for probation Crombie reinforced his status.
‘Mr Digby, always a pleasure to see you.’
‘Wish I could say likewise Crombie.’
‘That’s Detective Inspector Crombie to you Digby.’
Once out in the fresh air, Crombie hurried over to a local McDonalds. Not that he felt the need for a Big-Mac. One day in the far off future he might be glad of food that tasted already pre-digested, but in addition to looking exhausted, the kid looked hungry enough to eat a horse. Crombie intended to provide him with the next best thing.
To interview a minor, a social worker, lawyer or ‘suitable adult’ maybe even all three would be required. A waste of space in Crombie’s opinion, when all he wanted was an informal chat with the kid, and to find out if his hunch was correct.
From a vantage point opposite the station Crombie waited patiently for the door to open. For a fleeting moment the kid hesitated, casting a glance backwards towards the vending machine prominently displayed in the foyer, and Crombie knew he’d chosen his bait wisely. Hiding a smile, he crossed the road to intercept the gangly teenager, already striding purposely away from the station.
Chapter Three
Rhyllann Jones walked away from the Police Station with a vague sense of injustice at having been kept waiting so long, just to confirm his name had been spelt correctly in statements.
Street lights were beginning to flicker on; although the sun lingered unseen behind high rise tower blocks, the bright blue sky was beginning to smudge: It would be dark within half an hour, it must be nearly eight. He hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours. No wonder his stomach grumbled, and he could kill for even a mouthful of coke, but first he needed to talk to Wren. If he hurried he might just make visiting hours.
Rhyllann barely took a dozen steps when a hand clamped on his shoulder, spinning him round. Squinting upwards, he found himself being scrutinised by the fat shouty bastard from the station. He recognised the jacket first, it looked like one of Lurch’s castoff’s draped over plank like shoulders to droop unevenly to mid thigh, parts of the black leather worn to green and faded completely in some places. What had that guy called him? Rhyllann shrugged in a vain attempt to dislodge the shovel like hand as he tried to remember.
‘What now?’
A row of jumbled teeth appeared in a smile, Crombie’s eyes glistened with amusement. China blue in colour, they seemed much younger than the rest of his face.
‘Can’t have you roaming the streets of London looking like that son. You’ll frighten the horses. Come on – I’ll give you a lift home.’
Jeez. The last thing he needed: A copper poking around his house.
‘I gotta get back to the hospital. Apparently my cousin’s awake.’ He protested. Crombie tightened his grip, steering him over to a tired looking green estate.
‘I’ll give you a lift.’ He repeated. Rhyllann groaned again, this wasn’t just a copper, it was a Detective Inspector or some such shit. He tried a smile, which usually worked on adults who didn’t know him too well.
‘Thank you. Erm .. thank you Sir.’
The flattery seemed to work, the pincher like grip disappeared, although his feet almost left the ground as the copper’s hand slapped his shoulder, and in gravely tones the giant introduced himself as Detective Inspector Crombie.
The car reeked of wet dogs and stale smoke, crisp packets littered the floor and paperwork covered the passenger seat. Rhyllann waited while the detective chucked it into the rear before climbing in. Crombie made him buckle up before starting the engine, then nodded at a bulging brown paper bag.
‘Thought you might be hungry.’
The hamburger was still warm. Removing the detested gherkin, Rhyllann tore into the meat pattie, pausing only to swig down coke. Without looking at him Crombie said.
‘There’s some tissues in the glove box – wipe your face. Sorry son, I’ve mislaid my comb.’
Crombie had dense dark hair, cropped in a failed attempt at neatness. At present it stuck out at all angles. If he ever wore a red and black striped jumper, he’d look like Dennis the Menace grown up.
Rhyllann grinned then burped. ‘’S’cuse me. Thanks.’
‘Well, can’t have you screaming police brutality.’ Crombie drove like an old woman, slowing down for amber lights.
‘Nice car.’ Rhyllann lied, trying to make conversation. Metal grinded against metal as Crombie climbed gears. To break the embarrassing silence he asked.
‘Has my cousin given a description of the two men who attacked him?’
Checking his rear view mirror for the hundredth time, Crombie shook his head.
‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. We've reports of another incident involving an unfamiliar BMW in your Gran’s neighbourhood.’ His eyes flickered from the mirror, to the road, before glancing sideways at Rhyllann.
‘Lucky for your Gran you returned just when you did.’
Rhyllann grunted through a mouthful of chips, savouring their saltiness. Lucky was the word. For the past two weeks, everything had run like clockwork, he’d managed to stay out of trouble, just as he promised Mum before she took off for Eastern Europe on one of her missions. Late last night though, he’d discovered that a textbook needed to complete homework already overdue was missing.
He knew who to blame too. Wren; Everything that went wrong in Rhyllann’s life could be traced to Wren. Eventually, unable to sleep, he’d jogged round to Gran’s house and found himself starring in a B movie. To draw the intruders from Gran’s front room, where they were apparently torturing Wren for some reason, he’d vandalised their car. His half arsed plan succeeded even better than he’d hoped. While the men rushed into the street to inspect the damage, he’d managed to sprint back to Gran’s house with his heart in his mouth and slam the door on their faces. Not before one managed to clutch a hand around his throat. Rhyllann had simply sprinted faster, tearing away from the deathly grip. He just knew he would have nightmares about their murderous expressions for months to come.
Somehow he also knew Crombie already knew all this. Rhyllann’s statement had been taken at Wren’s hospital bedside, with only one small lie. Desperate not to land up with a social worker, he’d pretended to be staying with Gran, giving the excuse that he’d crept out late at night to visit his own house to retrieve a maths text book, returning just in time to avert disaster.
Rhyllann’s deepening suspicion that Crombie knew the whole truth was confirmed when he spoke again.
‘Funny thing son. I went through your Gran’s house myself. I found two identical maths books in your cousin’s room. How do you suppose that happened?’
Rhyllann thought about explaining that weird stuff happened around Wren, but settled for a shrug. He loved his younger cousin, but just wished he lived further away. Like Australia or somewhere.
Crombie changed tactics. ‘Anything unusual happen yesterday?’
Rhyllann looked at his profile in disbelief.
‘Apart from your Gran’s intruders I mean. Has she been threatened recently? Upset anyone?’
‘Yeh. My Gran. The Drug Baron.’
‘Look son, I’m trying to help. This is all off the record. Just you and me. An informal chat.’
Rhyllann wanted to sneer again, but Crombie sounded sincere. And he had sprung for a McDonald’s. Plus anyone who drove a clapped out wreck like this had to be straight. Instead he wracked his brains, yesterday only seemed a lifetime ago. He began thinking out loud.
‘Nothing really. Apart from a fight earlier.’ He hadn’t been in a fight for months but … ‘I was walking this girl home see, we heard all this noise – cheering and that. Some kids, well … one of the bigger kids had Wren’s bag, chucking his stuff around.’ Rhyllann paused. That was unusual. Coleman fancied himself a hard man, but even he didn’t usually pick on Wren.
‘So of course, I got stuck in. Saw them off.�
�� Saw Becky Roberts off too. Rhyllann groaned at the memory of Becky stalking off nose in the air. Leaving him and Wren scrabbling around on the pavement for books and pencils. That’s when it happened.
‘The Devil’s Stagecoach.’ Rhyllann murmured.
‘What?’
Rhyllann shook himself mentally, feeling foolish as he explained.
‘Devil’s Stagecoach Beetle. Wren said “Look – haven’t seen one of those for years”.’ He grinned at Crombie’s incomprehension.
‘An insect. If you touch it, it waves its little tail around like a sword or something. And Wren’s like “Have you got a matchbox or pencil case or anything?’” He frowned at the sudden image of Wren, rooting around in his bag.
‘And I’m like worried someone might see me playing with bugs.’
Losing patience Rhyllann had shovelled books and sports kits back carelessly.
‘The bus came then, so I just grabbed him and threw him on.’ Rhyllann realised he was prattling, but didn’t seem to be able to stop as waves of fatigue swept through him.
‘Huh huh.’ Said Crombie, looking puzzled. ‘But you didn’t get on yourself?’
They drove on in silence, Rhyllann kept his lips clamped.
‘I’ve been round your house too.’ Crombie gave another sideways glance. ‘I’ve got your story now son. I’ll tell you what happened.’
Rhyllann clamped his lips tighter, biting down in an effort to stay alert, wondering what the old git had managed to dig up, wishing he’d never climbed into this junk heap, Crombie’s driving was beginning to make him car sick.
‘Your mum’s away, that part’s true. You couldn’t bear the thought of staying with Granny, you’ve been home alone – am I right?’
Rhyllann stared straight ahead. Then nodded.